The Change in the Children
by Evia Wingjade
Summary: What did Helen Pevensie think of her strangely grown-up children? Rated Kplus for non-descriptive mentions of war. One shot.


Disclaimer: Narnia is not mine, I'm just borrowing it and the related characters from CS Lewis, Disney, and Walden Media.

Book and Movieverse  
*

_The Change in the Children_

Helen Pevensie felt as though she became more confused with each encounter she had with her children since they returned from the evacuations. She had been pleasantly surprised when Edmund had run to hug her upon their arrival back in London. Susan's decorum, previously the attempt of a child striving to 'be a big girl' as her mother had told her, was now a part of her. Peter looked to his siblings with a discreetly protective eye, making sure all was well without imposing the authority it was clear his siblings gave him. Lucy was still young, still full of joy, but it was no longer the variable, unknowing joy of childhood. In its place, Helen found her youngest daughter had an almost adult joy; the kind that has known suffering and found that the happiest things in life can be better appreciated after its dark moments. But that was impossible, she told herself. Her children had only been in the English countryside. Lucy was only eight!

Her latest discovery was that her children, most of whom had been heavy sleepers, were now roused by the slightest touch. What was more startling, her sons reacted as though they might be attacked if she woke them too roughly. Edmund in particular had been hard to rouse before the evacuation; now, it seemed he and Peter awoke almost as soon as she opened their doors.

What Helen Pevensie would never understand of her children was that their new, more adult characteristics had taken more than a decade to form. Her sons woke at the slightest touch, and sometimes at the slightest noise, because not to do so would have ended their lives on several occasions. Her eldest daughter's poise came from her time as a queen; her youngest child did in fact know that the hardships of life are what make the pleasant times worth treasuring. Her eldest son had taken years to perfect his role as protector and leader, and his siblings had learned to let him guide and defend them.  
She would never know that her younger son was overjoyed to see her because he remembered, all too well, a few miserable days when he was almost certain he would never see her again.

Helen Pevensie could only speculate about why her children were now vastly more mature than they had been when she put them on a train out of London. All the same, she was grateful for some things. Peter, she saw, was able to draw strength from his sisters' love and affection. He asked Edmund to help him sort through problems that required more subtlety than he himself possessed. In return, Edmund sought out his older brother when he needed guidance and his elder sister when he needed comfort. He went to Lucy for perspective and hope, as did Peter and Susan. And her oldest daughter, she was pleased to note, was as adept as Peter in her unobtrusive care of her siblings. She provided the practical approach when her brothers—especially Peter—became too hot-headed to think clearly. Edmund only lost his temper when Lucy was mistreated; he seemed to assume that she was his responsibility when Peter was not present.

It was obvious that her two daughters were so very close when she brought them back to London. Her sons were as well. She had given up arguing with Peter about their new sleeping habits after the first month. After finding them both in one bed or the other nearly every other night, she knew it was pointless to try to make them sleep in separate rooms. Therefore Helen made a suggestion one morning after rousing both her sons from Peter's bed. He and Edmund could move both beds into one room, one dresser and both desks into the other. Both her boys had hugged her fiercely. Only once they had moved the furniture—Susan and Lucy helped them figure out the best arrangement for both rooms—did they finally tell her why they slept in the same bed three times a week. It seemed that they both had horrific nightmares, and slept better if they were near one of their loved ones. Helen was saddened to hear that her children faced dreadful things in their sleep; horrid enough to drive them from their beds in fear. Peter told her that he and Edmund both had nightmares of war. She assumed that they hear stories and dreamed of their father in dire situations. After all, she had those dreams sometimes; once or twice she had even woken with tears on her cheeks, and she was an adult. How much worse must it be for her children? She thought, given her assumptions, that her sons would outgrow their need to have each other close. Helen had no way to know that her children's dreams were not imagining they could outgrow, but memories that would never fully lose their sting.


End file.
